Jazz and Die (17 page)

‘I’ve gone up in the world.’

Maddy was already dragging the bathroom stool out onto the
balcony. The beach was drenched in late sunshine, still warm. The tide was coming in, thrashing against the shingle, the unicorns dancing on the waves. I had certainly gone up in the world. Quite a long way up. Vertigo up.

‘I need to talk to you alone,’ he said.

‘What do you suggest I do with Maddy? Send her out to play on the beach?’

‘We’ll think of something,’ he said, taking the tray from me. Doris had given me a packet of assorted biscuits as a welcome back gift. I opened them and arranged them on a plate. It was all immensely civilized.

‘So do you like it at Latching with Jordan?’ James asked as he set the tray down on the balcony table. Some previous tenants had left behind a table and two basket chairs. They were bleached and worn from sun and rain. The tiles on the table were uneven from the rain seeping underneath.

‘I love it! I love it!’ Maddy enthused. ‘I’m going to stay here for ever and ever. I shan’t go back to school. I’ve got a job in Jordan’s shop now. I do window dressing and sell things.’

‘It all sounds very professional,’ James agreed.

‘But Jordan hasn’t got a television. I have to look at things on my laptop. It’s not the same.’

‘Jordan is a little behind the times or it may be that she is short of money,’ said James, stirring his tea.

‘We’re not short of money,’ said Maddy, mysteriously patting her pocket like a gangster.

‘So is this a flying visit?’ I could not resist asking.

‘No, my enquiries have moved to this area. I shall be based here for a few days. I’m staying at the Travelodge nearby. This is my room number if you need me.’ He’d written the number on a scrap of paper. ‘I have a sea view too, although no balcony to sit on.’

‘I bet the Travelodge isn’t as nice as Jordan’s flat, even though she hasn’t got much furniture.’

‘The pictures are nicer here,’ he said, looking in at my collection of Jack Vettriano waiting to be hung on the wall. I’d got ‘The
Singing Butler’, of course, and three others. There was also my early eighteenth-century map of West Sussex, when Brighton was only a fishing village and Latching wasn’t even named on it. I don’t think James had seen that acquisition.

It had been a lucky buy at a charity fair along the front. No one else had spotted it in the box of framed prints. I could not believe that it had been thrown out, or that no one wanted the print.
Flog It!
would love it. Doris had told me about
Flog It!

I could not stop my heart from soaring at the news. James was here for a few days. I might see him again though Maddy would be my constant chaperone. I could hardly dope her Pepsi with Valium so that she went to bed early. She was a late bird like her dad.

‘More tea?’ I asked like a society hostess.

James followed me through to the kitchen, leaving Maddy hanging over the balcony wall, eating her way through the biscuits.

‘You were followed,’ he said. ‘He must have seen you getting into your yellow car. We were tracking you by satellite when we noticed a motorbike following you. He stopped at the same cafe. Left a few moments after you, followed you all the way to Latching.’

I could not stop a shiver. I nearly spilt the milk. ‘How do you know it’s not a coincidence?’

‘The waiter did not return to the Whyte Cliffside Hotel. He was calling himself Carlos at the hotel. He’s left everything behind. We’ve gone through his things in his room, his hairbrush, etc. We are ninety-nine per cent sure he is Roger Cody, the art teacher who was last seen with Sarah before she was murdered. The DNA on cigarette ends we found in his room nearly matched cigarette ends found near Sarah’s makeshift grave. The torrential rain hasn’t helped. We’ve a feeling he’s been back to Corfe Castle.’

I shivered again. It was macabre. Going back to the grave.

‘And now he’s in Latching?’

‘Somewhere in Latching. We’ve lost track of him. But he’s here. Probably got a job or is laying low.’

‘At the Travelodge?’

‘I hope not. Maybe. It’s reasonably priced.’

‘How am I going to cope if I can’t take Maddy out with me? I have a shop to open and a runaway wife to find.’

‘Maddy could come with me to the station tomorrow, play on our computers, watch our television, re-organize the holding cells.’

I gave him a quick hug. It was very quick. Enough to feel the hardness of his body and the freshness of his skin. A long time no hug.

‘Caught you,’ said Maddy, from the doorway. She was grinning with satisfaction. ‘I knew you two were up to something.’

M
addy spent the evening on the phone to her dad. Every minute of the day was recounted to him in detail. He seemed reassured to know that DCI James was in the area.

‘But he’s only come to see Jordan,’ Maddy said knowingly. ‘They are cool about it but I could tell.’

‘Don’t play gooseberry then,’ he said.

‘As if I would. Jordan is my bestest friend.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘She hasn’t got a television. Isn’t that cool? I thought everybody had a television. So we are going to play cards instead. And we are going to play for money! Dig that, Dad!’

I didn’t point out that 20p would be our highest stake. Supper was on a tray, cheese and nibbles, radishes, celery and nuts. By ten o’clock, Maddy was flagging. She had won 50p off me. She played a few of her dad’s tapes and flaked out on the air mattress on the floor.

I was glad to retreat to my bedroom with my notes to go over. If I found Doreen Taylor, it was odds to even she would not want to go back to Reg. Or she might already be in London; hitched a lift, walked, cycled. I hadn’t asked if she had got a bike. Probably not. A bike would have given Doreen a certain amount of freedom and the sanctimonious Reg would not have allowed that.

Tomorrow I would go to the library, comb the local papers, see if anything sparked an idea. Latching had a summer of public
events. I might spot Doreen in a crowd picture. I would show her photo around the station staff, the bus crews, the National Express office. Maddy would be safe at the police station in DCI James’s care. He would probably ask one of his young officers to keep an eye on her.

I struck lucky at the railway station. One of the women staff customer personnel (they used to be called porters) remembered seeing someone like Doreen Taylor behaving oddly.

‘Yeah, I think that’s her,’ she said, squinting at the photograph. ‘I noticed her because she was so nervous. Kept dropping everything. Yet she only had a couple of stuffed carrier bags. Nearly fell down the subway steps in her hurry to get to platform two opposite. Then she shut herself in the ladies loo and I thought she must be doing drugs or something. I nearly knocked on the door. Can’t have that, you know, not on the station. Against the law.’

‘But you didn’t and she wasn’t?’ ‘Nah, she came out in another mad rush and flung herself on a train at the last moment before the doors closed. It was a wonder she didn’t get squashed.’

‘Where was she going?’

‘I dunno. It was the slow train to Brighton. The fifty-six. Stops all along the line.’

‘Thank you very much indeed,’ I said, giving her my business card. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Please give me a ring if you think of anything else.’

‘What she done? Robbed a bank?’ The woman was curious.

I shook my head. ‘Gone missing. Her family are worried.’

The woman nodded wisely. Perhaps she knew the feeling. ‘That fits,’ she said. ‘She looked like she was running away from something, poor soul.’

Brighton was a good place to get lost in. It was crowded with holidaymakers in any season, cafes and restaurants, hotels and boarding hotels thriving. Doreen could hole up there for weeks and never be found. And I would never find her either.

But she would have to have money to live on or get a job.
The miserly Reg would probably have kept her short, made her account for every penny of housekeeping spent. No chance of saving much, if anything, out of the purse.

She needed money. She needed a job. And to get a job she would need an address. Employers always wanted an address. They didn’t employ the homeless.

Brighton was my next stop. I called DCI James and told him of my schedule for the rest of the day.

‘Can you keep Maddy for me?’ I asked. ‘I’ll be back before it gets dark.’

‘She’s teaching my officers how to do funky dancing.’ He sounded amused for once.

‘Very useful in police enquiries.’

‘Don’t take your yellow car. He might follow you and you won’t be safe.’

‘I was going to go on the train. Ask passengers if they saw my missing person on the day she went missing.’

‘So you have a lead?’

‘A good one. She was seen at Latching Station in a state.’

‘A state?’

‘Nervous, not wanting to be seen, hiding in the ladies.’

‘Roger Cody seems to have been swallowed up in Latching. We’re checking all the hotels. He may be staying at one or working at one. He must have had false references to have worked at the Whyte Cliffside.’

‘No problem these days with photocopiers. You can falsify any document. Nothing is valid if you know how to do it.’

‘Be careful, Jordan. This man is a killer. Elsie Dunlop is surviving but she was lucky. She’s still in intensive care.’

The fast train to Brighton only took half an hour. None of the passengers had seen my nervous Doreen, dropping carrier bags. Brighton railway station was teeming with passengers, a grey, smoky building with a dirty glass roof that did nothing to enhance its appearance. The fearless pigeons were everywhere, searching for dropped crumbs from the numerous take-away
cafes.

I combed the cafes, the restaurants, the hotels, walked a dozen streets, showing everyone Doreen’s photograph. They might have seen her, employed her, given her a free mug of tea. But no one recognized the fragile Doreen.

The pier and the amusement arcades were next, then the succession of tiny cave-like shops underneath the promenade, that led directly onto the beach. The beach was crowded, not an inch to spare between glistening bare brown bodies. Yet only a short distance up the coast there was Latching with four miles of sand and shingle and plenty of room for everyone.

Doreen would hardly be sunbathing, with her carrier bags as head rests.

She could be anywhere among this seething throng.

‘Yeah, I’ve seen her,’ said a swarthy stallholder who ran a whelk stall. ‘She’s bought a couple of punnets off me yesterday. Looked half starved. I gave her some crisps and a cup of tea.’

‘How kind,’ I said, noting his name. ‘Have you seen her lately?’

‘Nope. She paid me in pence, like money out of a child’s money box.’

‘I’m looking for her. I need to find her.’

He shook his head. ‘Homeless, I should think. Have a look under the pier or on Rathbone Street. That’s where the homeless go to get free stuff. Free soup dished out at night from a van or something.’

The sun was going down, taking the warmth. I was glad I had my fleece. Somewhere I read that fleeces are made from recycled plastic bags. I wondered if I was wearing Tesco or Waitrose?

I found Doreen Taylor, wrapped in nothing but her coat, trying to sleep in a narrow doorway in The Lanes. She looked dreadful, gaunt and unwashed, a scarf wrapped round her head. I had nothing on me except a packet of Rolos and some mints. Talk about prepared to save the starving.

‘Doreen Taylor? Don’t be alarmed. My name’s Jordan Lacey and I have come to help you. Will you come with me?’

‘I don’t know who you are.’ She sat up, blinking and wild-eyed,
against the shop doorway. ‘What do you want? Leave me alone.’

‘I know. You will have to trust me.’

‘You could be anybody. You could be the police. I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t know you.’

‘I’m not the police. I’m a friend.’

She took a lot of persuading but hopefully my harmless face and friendly disposition calmed her fears. Also the doorway was draughty and hard. She was cold and hungry.

I took her to a dimly lit all-night cafe that would not mind her bedraggled appearance. I ordered two coffees, cheeseburgers and chips. I ate a few chips to be sociable and drank the coffee. Doreen demolished the rest. She still had a faint air of prettiness about her. Reg had not been able to wipe away all her confidence. She had found the courage to run away.

I had to tell her. ‘I’m a private investigator, i.e. that’s a detective, employed by your husband, Reg Taylor, to find you.’

She shot up frantically, ready to escape, but I managed to calm her and get her to sit down again. I kept my hand on her arm. She was trembling.

‘You said you were my friend.’

‘So I am, don’t worry, Doreen. Please sit down. I’m not going to split on you. Reg Taylor is a vile man and I don’t know how you stood him for so long. You deserve a better life, but not by sleeping in doorways in Brighton. That’s not a better life.’

‘I don’t know what else to do,’ said Doreen, forlornly. She had a sweet, clear voice. It was her best asset.

‘What can you do?’

‘I was a telephonist for a big pharmaceutical firm.’

‘Go back to the same firm, try to get a job with them. Tell them any story you like. Say you are divorced, single, whatever. But you must find yourself a room, an address, however cheap, get a few good nights’ rest, keep yourself clean and decently fed and warm.’

‘But I’ve no money. There’s only a few pence left.’

‘Yes, you have,’ I said. ‘Your husband reluctantly gave me a hundred pounds to find you. You can have it. Here it is, take it.
I’ve only spent a train fare and I can afford that.’

Doreen looked at the folded crumpled notes in bewilderment. ‘He gave you a hundred pounds? So you could find me?’

‘My fee for two days’ work. I charge fifty pounds a day. But I want you to have it. I know it’s not a lot but it will pay for a dry roof over your head till you sort yourself out. There are a lot of bed and breakfast places, back of the town, vacancy signs in the windows. Find somewhere that looks clean and homely.’

She fingered the money as if it was contaminated. ‘How do I know this isn’t a trap?’

‘I promise, Doreen. It’s all above board. We’ll leave separately. You can go first, if you want to. Please take my card and if you need any help, phone me.’

Doreen stood up uncertainly, pushing the notes into her bag. ‘And you won’t tell Reg that you found me? You promise me that? I can’t go back to him.’

‘I’ll tell him that my enquiries have gone dry. I won’t mention Brighton at all. But please tell me something. I’m curious about this man. What does Reg do for a living?’

‘He’s an income tax inspector. At least, that’s what he said.’

It was dark by the time I reached Latching police station to collect Maddy. She was glazed with boredom. She rushed at me.

‘Thank goodness you are here at last, Jordan! Can we go on the pier? The amusement arcade stays open quite late. They are all working here, you know. Dreadful things happen. I saw two blokes covered in blood. Everyone is so busy.’

‘I should hope so. Have you got your pink fleece with the hood? OK, we’ll walk home, via the pier. I’ll say goodbye to DCI James.’

‘He’s out. An urgent call. I heard the sirens.’

I thanked the station sergeant instead and steered Maddy out of the building. She was only too pleased to get out, as if she had been set bail. I tucked her arm into mine. A breath of sea air on the pier was a good idea after a day in Brighton, a place so crowded there was barely room to breathe.

‘I know some short cuts down twittens, as they’re called. Used by pirates and smugglers in olden days. Probably full of ghosts. We’ll go on the pier but for ten minutes only. Then it’s back to the flat and no arguing.’

‘I never argue,’ said Maddy. I didn’t comment.

Walking the pier in the dark is magic. It is strung with fairy lights which swing in the night breeze, phosphoresence glistens far out on the sea, fishing boats sail past, distant pin pricks of light denote a cruise liner sailing into Portsmouth.

The amusement arcade was packed with youngsters on a night out. The air resonated with the sound of coins cascading out of the machines. Maddy won 40p and lost a pound’s worth of coins.

‘Nearly fifty per cent profit,’ she said happily, disregarding the true maths of her winnings.

The flat was a haven of peace and quiet. I was glad to sink into an armchair and put my feet up. I had walked miles that day, the only respite being on the train twice. But I had achieved what I set out to do. I had found Doreen and helped to set her completely free. I hoped she would find a new life.

‘You looked whacked,’ said Maddy. ‘Shall I make some tea? Station tea is so strong. It’s out of a machine. It’s like brown gravy. Yuck.’

‘That would be lovely. I only need a few minutes to relax and then I’ll revive.’

But I fell asleep and when I woke, Maddy was out on the balcony, people-watching in the dark, and my tea had grown cold. My mobile phone was ringing. I dug it out and answered.

‘Hello?’

It was James. My James. His voice was full of concern. ‘Are you all right?’

‘We are both fine. Weary but OK. Thank you for having Maddy.’

‘Can I come round?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Downstairs. Outside on the street.’

‘I’ll buzz you in.’

He came along the walkway to my flat carrying two large paper-wrapped parcels. The smell was delicious, wafting my taste buds. ‘Got any plates?’ he said as if I didn’t know the meaning of the word. ‘I’ve brought supper.’

We ate fish and chips out on the balcony, the night stars twinkling in a velvet black sky. James mourned the lack of tomato sauce but I’d hardly had time to go shopping. Maddy ate with her fingers, ignoring the fork I gave her. Fish tasted better finger fed.

‘So you found your missing person?’ James asked.

‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘Mission accomplished.’

‘Where was she?’ Maddy asked curiously.

‘Client confidentiality,’ I said. ‘One day I might tell you. But she is going to find a job, get a new life.’

‘Are you going to tell that nasty man who came to your shop?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t think he needs to know anything.’

‘Jordan works in wondrous ways. She rights wrongs, wrongs rights,’ said James. ‘Let her resolve the case in her own way. She has her own methods.’ He followed me out to the kitchen with the plates. ‘I must speak to you alone. Maybe I should have simply phoned you from the foyer.’

‘Supper was a lovely idea, thank you. We’ll go outside, on the walkway.’

‘No vertigo?’

‘Not at night, because I can’t see down. You could stop me from seeing down by standing in the way.’